How the Tables have Turned
by NinjaNovelist
Summary: In a unique twist of events, Peeta is the one in need of comfort, while Katniss has to be reminded of what's real and what's not. Two-shot.
1. Comfort

**First Hunger Games fic, so hopefully it's not overly sentimental and stuff. This first chapter is in Katniss' POV. **

**Disclaimer: The odds are NOT in my favor... meaning I don't own the Hunger Games.**

To me it seems strange- almost eerie- that after only a year following the tumultuous revolution that changed the course of Panem forever, everyone has already reverted to the habitual cycle known as life.

Even I'm subjected to this: Wake. Wash. Hunt. Eat. Book. Sleep. Repeat.

The pattern has become so routine, I can often barely remember of a time before, when Gale, my mother, and Prim were a part of my everyday life. Before the rebellion. Before the Quell. Before the 74th Hunger Games.

There are only two occasions in my day in which the stark reality of my past is resurfaced. The first is in my terrifyingly vivid nightmares.

The second, however, is much more welcoming: the book.

The book which records of happy times and good people, that they may never be forgotten.

This is the one time in my day when I experience some diversity. Sometimes Greasy Sae, of whom I'm convinced has lived forever, will recall of old friends from her youth. Or sometimes my mother will find the courage to call and share stories of my father or Prim, from when I was too young to remember them.

But the most frequent visitor is Haymitch, telling both of his adversaries within his own Quell and the countless tributes he mentored afterward, all of which met untimely deaths. And, when he feels he can handle it, Haymitch will bring Peeta along.

Peeta, the person I will always owe my life to. The boy with the bread I want so badly to get back.

Because of the flashbacks he still gets at times, we are forbidden to be alone together. Haymitch is in charge of handling him when the fabricated tracker jacker memories get a hold of his mind.

We still talk and laugh together, as friends often do. But with someone else in the room, we can't completely open up with one another like we once could. We can no longer hold each other at night to ward off the horrible dreams we know will come to besiege us.

So it comes as quite a surprise to me when I open my door one evening to find Peeta standing there, unaccompanied.

He instantly reads my mind in the way no one since Gale could do. "I haven't had a flashback in months," he explains. "Haymitch thinks I'm ready."

I cock a suspicious eyebrow. Finally, Peeta adds, "And he's too hung over to be of any help."

I have to smile. "When is he not?" I ask as I let him in.

Peeta laughs. "He's even worse than usual. I walked into his room today and found him lying on his bed, his head over a trashcan. I don't think he's moved all day."

By this time, we've reached my living room. I pick up the book from the coffee table as we both seat ourselves on the couch. But rather than adding something new, we find ourselves flipping through past entries in companionable silence.

Rue hopping from tree to tree, Finnick diving into the water as effortlessly as a dolphin, Father singing a lullaby as I drift off to sleep... all pleasant, soothing memories. I try to focus only on the warmth they bring, and not the hidden coldness that reminds me I won't see them again.

We pause at a page with no actual words, but only a drawing. There are five people pictured: a stern-looking woman, a tall man in an apron, and three young boys.

The mother can be seen from the other room, dealing with a customer, while each of the others are working on different stages of making cookies. The eldest son is mixing together the batter, the middle child is sliding a sheet of variously shaped dough into the oven, and finally, the father is seen guiding the hands of the youngest- only about seven or eight years old- with frosting the treats.

Peeta runs his fingers affectionately over his family, even sparing his bitter mother a glance of longing.

I can't say exactly when the tremors begin. In fact, I don't even notice them until Peeta is at the point where he's completely lost control of himself.

He shoots up from his place beside me, shoving the picture into my face accusingly. "You did this!" he shouts. His voice is undoubtedly his, but at the same time, it is unrecognizable. "You're the girl on fire; you caused the flames that killed my family!"

The lies don't hurt me. It's the ring of truth at the core that's so painful.

I somehow manage to stand and face him calmly. "No, Peeta. That's not rea-"

Suddenly I'm on the ground.

"Get away from me, mutt!" he barks.

Even after my head clears from the impact of the floor, I don't move.

"Them... and him... and him... and her... and him... and her... all of them! Dead, because of you!"

With each mention of a person, there is a frighteningly loud rip.

I can no longer see Peeta, but the scathing words continue to burn my ears. His natural talent with speech can bring comfort, but it can harm just as easily.

I can only wait until Peeta wears himself out. At last, when all that reaches my ears is Peeta's weary panting, I dare to look up.

Strewn all across the floor is what remains of the book. Peeta's incredible strength allowed him to tear through part of the binding. Most of the pages remain intact, but a handful of rumpled pieces are left scattered on the ground.

I'm automatically drawn towards the page nearest to me. It depicts a small girl in two blonde braids, giggling under a calf's playful tongue upon her cheek. There is a great rip down the middle that splits her pretty face in two.

"Prim..." I mourn, stroking the paper in an oddly similar way to what Peeta had done just minutes before.

Peeta.

I scan the entire room, but he's gone.

I'm out the door in the blink of an eye, bracing against the cold autumn wind to chase down the boy with the bread.

Peeta's already halfway there to his own house. Upon sight of me, he quickens his pace, but his mechanic leg prevents him from gaining the speed he was once able to reach. It's not long before I catch up with him, grabbing both his shoulders to force him into a halt.

"It's okay, Peeta," I reassure him. "I don't blame you."

Peeta gently removes himself from my grasp as he turns toward me.

"But _I_ blame me," he answers.

His eyes contain so much hurt, I just can't help but close the distance between us and envelope him in a warm embrace.

He initially resists, too afraid that he'll harm me again. But I refuse to loosen my hold. Eventually he gives in both to my persistence and his pain, returning the hug as he gingerly rests his forehead on my shoulder.

The entire scenario feels so backwards. So many times Peeta was my source of comfort when I was in need, and now the roles are reversed.

After a time, I feel as though I should say something. I'm no eloquent speaker like Peeta, but for his sake I have to try.

"Don't worry. Everything's going to be all right." Even I wince at the common phrase. At those words that are seldom ever true.

Peeta sees through it as well. He breaks off the embrace as he turns away from me. "It's been a year, Katniss, and there are still times when I can't control myself. If I can hurt you even now, who's to say I won't do it again?"

"It was just one little shove," I argue. "We've both been through so much worse..."

"That's not what I'm talking about," he interjects.

It takes a moment for me to understand what he means. "The book?" I ask. "Peeta, those people mean a lot to me. But they're gone, and nothing I do can ever bring them back."

I take a step closer to him. "I haven't lost you, though. And I hope I never do."

Peeta's disbelief in what I'm saying causes him to wheel around and face me again. "Why not?"

At first, even I don't have the answer. Then, in an act of pure spontaneity, I place my hands on either side of his face and guide it so he has no choice but to look at me.

"Because I love you."

It's the first time I've ever told him this; even during our act as star-crossed lovers, I had always avoided those words. Because to me love is something sacred, reserved for only a select few in my life. And now Peeta has joined those ranks.

For a brief moment, his face being mere inches from mine, I feel an intense urge to kiss him. But he still seems hesitant to believe that I'm being sincere, and after all the meaningless kisses I showered upon him in the past, it would be unfair to start that again until he's sure that my love is real.

So instead we remain frozen in time, neither one of us breaking our gaze upon the other. I could spend forever staring into the abyss of his crystal-clear blue eyes, discover all that lays just beyond them...

"It's getting rather chilly out here," comes a smug voice. "Shouldn't you lovebirds be inside where it's warm?"

I guess forever will have to wait.

Peeta and I waste no time in separating as Haymitch saunters in, a nearly empty bottle of wine dangling from his hand.

"I thought you were sick," Peeta says in a feeble attempt to cover up the awkward moment.

"My stomach settled just enough for me to get some fresh air," Haymitch replies as he casually leans against Peeta's porch railing. "Although the sight of you two together may very well upset it again."

I make sure to exaggerate my eye roll so the drunk could still see it in the dark. But then an idea suddenly comes to mind.

"Come on, Haymitch," I say. "We have a book to repair."

Even though he has no idea what I'm talking about, Haymitch still opposes.

"And what if I don't, sweetheart?" he asks, his tone sugar-coated.

Peeta comes in right on cue. "Then you won't get a drop of the nice new bottle of liquor that..."

He had Haymitch at 'liquor'. The middle-aged man sprang up and raced towards my house with the energy of a child inside a candy store.

It can be very advantageous knowing how gullible Haymitch can be in the early stages of his drunkenness.

As we trail behind our mentor, Peeta takes my hand. He holds it loosely, still afraid that I won't want this. I immediately respond by giving his hand a small squeeze, just like the one he gave me during our first reaping.

Maybe, after all that he's done for me, I can finally begin to give back.

**Part Two will be out in a few days. Hope you liked it! **


	2. Real

**Okay, I know that this story has been done about a million times... but not by me. So this is my take on it.**

My brows are woven together like someone had stitched them that way, my frown of concentration never leaving the partially-completed painting before me.

It's hard to get the lighting just right, as it takes place in the early morning. Maybe if I just add...

I remove the paintbrush from my chin, unaware that it had been there in the first place, and dip it inside my favorite color: sunset (or in this case, sunrise) orange.

I dab bits of the paint along the outline of the subject of my work, illuminating the face of the sixteen-year-old version of Katniss.

It's a picture of her from our first Games, when we went hunting together. With her bow raised, the rising sun giving the girl on fire an unearthly glow that strangely suited her, I couldn't help but notice how truly beautiful she looked. Not that she never looks that way, of course.

Thinking of Katniss makes me glance down at my left hand. The golden band of thirteen years upon my fourth finger has flecks of green and gray on it, two colors that make me miss my wife all the more.

Katniss has gone to visit her mother in District Four for the week. I've been occupying my time well enough, but as made apparent by the large portrait I am currently making of her, I can't wait for her to get back.

I suddenly hear the great creak of the front door being opened. Could that be...

My brush falls to the floor as I race downstairs. Sure enough, there stands my wife just inside the door, bags still in hand.

"Welcome home," I say, greeting her with a nice long kiss.

I've definitely missed being able to do that.

After we break apart, I add, "I wasn't expecting you back until tomorrow."

"My mother found me an earlier train," Katniss replies.

She seems rather unhappy about this fact.

"Why so disappointed in seeing your husband early?" I tease.

Katniss appears to miss the joke. "It's not that," she says absently as we make our way into the study. "My mother and I were just discussing some... interesting things."

"Like what?" I ask curiously.

Katniss' voice lowers to a mumble that I can barely comprehend. "Headaches, cravings, mood swings..."

All these things swirl around in my head, trying to put themselves together. "Katniss?"

For the first time since her return, those deep gray eyes lock onto mine. "Peeta, we're going to have a baby."

And all the pieces fall into place at last.

My smile is so huge it almost hurts. I instantly gather my wife up into a hug. "That's wonderful, Katniss!"

I only pull away when I realize the embrace is not being returned.

I hold her out at arm's length, studying her worried expression closely. "Is there something wrong with that?"

Somehow, this simple question is what sets Katniss over the edge.

She falls into a nearby armchair and cradles her face in her hands as she bursts into tears. "I'm not ready!" she sobs. "I know you've always wanted kids, and I wished so badly that I did, too. But every time I see a child, it's like staring straight in the face of Prim or Rue. This baby could be gone just as easily as them! I don't think I could bear being responsible for another innocent victim."

Suddenly I see where her fears are coming from.

I kneel down beside Katniss, using one hand to hold hers, and the other to grasp the side of her face. I use the pad of my thumb to wipe away her tears.

People tell me that I have a great gift with language, but something tells me that a bunch of fancy words won't be enough to get through to her. So I decide upon a much more direct approach.

"Let's play real or not real."

Katniss' head snaps up in surprise at my unusual request. "Peeta, wh-"

"Let's play real or not real," I repeat, but firmer this time.

With a microscopic nod of the head, Katniss reluctantly complies.

Thus the game we have played so many times before begins. Only this time it's not for my benefit, but for Katniss'.

"The rebellion is over, and the Capitol has fallen. Real or not real?"

Katniss has no idea where this is going, but she still replies, "Real."

"Snow and Coin are both dead. Real or not real?"

"Real," she answers again.

This third question I say slow and clear, making sure that it sinks in. "There are no more Hunger Games. Real or not real?"

After a defeated sigh, Katniss says, "Real."

I pause for a moment before starting on the next set of questions.

"You are my wife. Real or not real?"

Even in her present state of mind, Katniss can still roll her eyes like a professional. "Not real," she replies sarcastically.

"Katniss..." I warn.

She sighs again. "Real."

"We love each other. Real or not real?"

"Real." This she says without hesitation.

"And we are going to have a beautiful child together, who will grow up in this world, safe and sound. Real or not real?"

Katniss says nothing.

So when I stand and kiss her forehead tenderly, I answer for her.

"Real."

Then I walk away to leave my wife to her thoughts.

I know that Katniss is scared. And after all we've been through, I don't blame her. But one way or another, I am determined to have her see that this baby will make everything worth it.


End file.
